Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Chloe
Abdominal pain guy is a total sweetheart. He reminds me of my grandfather—same thinning white hair, sun-spotted skin, and motor mouth. If he didn’t have a Russian accent, they could be twins.
He’s managed to outline his entire family tree and half his life story in the span of walking from Triage to his bay. But I don’t mind. I’m used to having my ear chewed off; it comes with having a grandfather who thinks storytelling is a competitive sport.
“…Olga used to say my food would be the death of me,” he chuckles, wincing slightly. “Turns out, she was right.”
Olga is his late wife. She died five years ago, collapsed in her GP’s waiting room while Borris was parking the car. Gone before he made it inside.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Borris,” I reassure him, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm. “Could be a dozen things causing your stomach pain.”
“If I can’t eat borscht anymore, you may as well kill me now.” He winks. “Food’s all I’ve got left.” He pats his belly with theatrical flair. “You know, Olga and I opened the first Russian restaurant in Sydney? Ran it together for thirty years—until she passed.”
I grin. “Let’s run some tests before we ban beets. Your bloods should be back soon. We’ll start with an ultrasound; if that doesn’t give us answers, we’ll move on to CT or MRI. In the meantime, the nurse is going to give you something for the pain.”
“The good stuff?”
“The very best.” I wink back.
I leave the nurse with him and head off to hunt down the scan machine.
“Hey, Olivia, where’s the ultrasound?” I call out.
“Bay thirteen!” she replies over her shoulder.
I glance at the board and cringe. I should be moving faster, clearing more patients. I pull back the curtain at bay thirteen—and immediately wish I hadn’t.
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry!” I whip the curtain shut again. “Do you, um, need assistance in there, sir?”
Please say no. Please say no.
The image is seared into my brain: a squat gone wrong, shit everywhere—bed, gown, legs, the pan. That was some explosion.
The smell alone nearly knocks me flat. I bury my face in my elbow.
Sweet mother of mercy.
“Can’t a man get any fucking privacy?” the patient snaps.
“Apologies, sir.”
“Don’t mind him,” a nurse says, already gloving up. “He’s all bark, no bite. What do you need?”
“Ultrasound.”
She nods, hauls it out, and wheels it over to me. I pointedly keep my eyes anywhere but on the war zone behind her. Once was enough.
“What crawled up his ass and died?” I whisper, removing my nose from my elbow.
“Two weeks of crap,” she replies flatly.
“Seriously?”
“Fourth enema.”
“Holy shit.” My brows lift.
“Exactly. Not so holy—just shit. And buckets of it.”
“Good luck. And thanks.” I grip the machine and flee back to Borris, thanking every cosmic force that I didn’t pull that chart. We’re not supposed to pick patients, but that was more fecal trauma than I can handle in my state on day one.
Back in Borris’s bay, I squirt some gel onto his belly and get to work.
“Monroe?” he asks, reading my badge. “Like Marilyn?”
“The very one. My parents are huge fans. They joke they almost named me Marilyn, but I like to believe they wouldn’t be that cruel.”
“Well, you’re just as lovely—if not lovelier—than your namesake.”
“Borris, you silver-tongued devil.”
He laughs, his gaze warm as I move the wand across his abdomen.
“You’re a young thing, aren’t you? Your parents must be very proud.”
“They are. Ridiculously so. I lucked out—best support system I could’ve asked for. I might be young, but you’re in safe hands, I promise.”
“I believe it. You’ve got that spark in your eyes, you’re one bright kid. Are your folks in medicine too?”
“God, no.” I laugh. “Mom faints at the sight of blood, and Dad wouldn’t step foot in a hospital unless something was falling off.
She’s a kindergarten teacher with the patience of a saint.
Dad’s a retired builder, totally gruff on the outside but mush on the inside.
I’m an only child, so yeah… I had a monopoly on their attention. ”
“And what made you want to be a doctor? Or is that too personal?”
I glance up, amused. “Borris, you told me your wife ‘had a great rack’, and your daughter once choked out your son over pirozhki. I think we passed ‘personal’ five minutes ago.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough.”
“I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease as a kid. Spent a lot of time in hospitals. Met some amazing nurses and doctors who made it bearable. I just… wanted to do that for someone else, you know?”
“You already are,” he states gently.
My throat tightens. I blink fast and smile, shifting my attention to the monitor.
I’ve worked and studied while sick more times than I can count.
Nausea, joint pain, fatigue—I push through because I’ve always had to.
That’s the thing about growing up with a chronic illness: discomfort becomes your baseline.
You learn to function through the fog. So I keep my body strong.
I lift, train, move—whenever I can—because I need muscle to carry me when nothing else can.
Because when my body crashes, I need it to know how to fight.
And it does. Because I’m strong. And stubborn. And I’ve got shit to prove.
I pause, wand hovering mid-sweep.
“There was this one doctor,” I explain. “Back when I was thirteen. No one could figure out what was wrong with me. I’d lost weight, was running fevers, and was always exhausted. Most of them thought I was being dramatic. That it was anxiety. Or hormones. You know—girl stuff.”
Borris watches me closely, expression sobered.
“But this one female doctor didn’t. She was working a shift here—in this exact ER.” My voice thins a little at the edges. “Took one look at me and said, ‘I don’t like how this feels.’ Ordered a bunch of tests when she could’ve just sent me home, like every other doctor had.”
He lets out a low sound, almost a hum.
“If she hadn’t caught it when she did…” I trail off, letting the reality sit between us. “I might have ended up in emergency surgery. Or worse.”
His gaze softens. “That’s quite the guardian angel.”
“She was,” I whisper. “Didn’t treat me like a kid. She saw me. And she put me on this… path. Showed me how powerful medicine can be, when it’s done right.”
I glance at the wand in my hand, the cold gel sliding across his abdomen. “So, yeah. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to be another set of scrubs. I want to be someone who cares. Who listens.”
Borris reaches for my free hand and gives it a firm squeeze. “Well, I hope the next kid who walks through those doors gets someone just like you.”
“Thank you,” I reply softly. “You know, you remind me of my grandfather. He calls me his little firecracker.” I smile. “He’s stubborn, opinionated, and swears too much—basically, your spiritual twin.”
“Sounds like a stand up guy.” He winks. “Though I’d upgrade you to flamethrower.”
I laugh, the tension breaking. My eyes flick back to the monitor, and I finish scanning his abdomen. Four stones—nasty ones.
“Well, looks like we found your culprit—gallstones.”
He groans. “Does this mean no more borscht?”
“You might have to make a few diet changes. Sorry.”
“Ah, blyat.” He sighs.
“The good news is, none of them are blocking the duct and you don’t have a fever, so no emergency surgery. But you’ll need to follow up with your GP to figure out a long-term plan.”
I squeeze the back of his hand in sympathy.
“Do you have any chest or back pain?”
“Actually, yeah—right here.” He taps his sternum.
“Gallstones can mimic heartburn or chest pain. But I’ll order an ECG to be safe.”
“So… what now?”
“We keep you on fluids, continue the pain meds, no eating or drinking to give your gallbladder a break. We’ll also give you anti-nausea meds if you need them. But once the pain settles, you can go home with a plan to follow up with your GP.”
The sound of the curtain being pulled back makes me glance up. Hannah pokes her head in. “Hey, you free?”
“Give me two minutes.”
I turn to Borris. “A nurse will come by soon for the ECG. I’ll be back to go over the results.”
He pouts dramatically. “Who will I talk to while you’re gone?”
“You’ll survive.” I grin. “I won’t be long.”
I step out and lean against the wall. It’s uncanny how much Borris reminds me of my grandfather. They have the same gift for making a stranger feel like family in under five minutes. One moment, I’m charting his vitals; the next, he’s made his way into my chest.
I take a breath and shake it off.
Hannah’s waiting with Sienna and Jax, so I head over to join them.
“Dr. Zac asked me to show you the morgue, the hospital’s private tunnels, and how we handle helipad pickups. We’ve got an organ delivery arriving in ten,” she explains.
Sienna gestures ahead. “Let’s go.”
We follow Hannah down the corridor toward the elevators. She points out the double fire doors. “Private tunnels. Swipe your pass to get in. We use them mainly for patient transfers.” She keeps moving, and we trail behind here.
“So,” I say, “where did you all study?”
We’ve only just met, but working side-by-side in the ER makes it feel like we’ve known each other longer. There’s a connection, even if I barely know anything about them.
“Melbourne Uni,” Sienna says.
“UNSW,” Jaxon adds. “You?”
“Sydney Uni.”
“You from Melbourne originally?” I ask Sienna while we wait for the elevator. She’s not my favorite person, but I’ll give her this—she’s a solid doctor. Shame her personality doesn’t come with the same credentials.
“Yep. Born and bred. Wanted a change, so I moved north for my internship.”
“What about you, Hannah?” I ask as the elevator doors open.
“Sydney Uni, too. I’m in my third year,” she replies, indicating the basement level on the panel. “That’s where the morgue is.”
I nod. “How’s the ER treating you so far? Think you’ll stick with it?”
She shrugs. “Fast-paced, chaotic, borderline traumatic… But I love it. Good for my ADHD brain.”
Sienna gives a sharp snort and nods.